


Heart of Worms

by Ninni



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Incest Kink, M/M, Pining!Sam, Rape Fantasy, Suicidal Thoughts, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, blink and you'll miss it mpreg mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 05:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16675327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninni/pseuds/Ninni
Summary: Sam sheds his baby skin during an autumn in Detroit. Angst ensues.





	Heart of Worms

 

Heart of Worms

_dark weecest_

 

 

 

Sam sheds his baby skin during an autumn in Detroit.

Pink, chubby cheeks hollow out, and suddenly he has long legs and bony elbows and a sharp jawline sprinkled with pink little zits. Dean teases him about his uncoordinated limbs, but not about the red blemishes. The polite silence is more humiliating than a remark ever could be.

Sam lets his hair grow to have something to hide behind.

 

*

 

Sam spends hours secretly observing Dean’s face. Dean’s skin is poreless and golden, his nose straight and his mouth strawberry red and full, eyelashes thick and sooty like a girl’s around poison green eyes. Sam thinks, _that’s my brother_.

That’s my brother, and he’s perfect.

Sam catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the window of the gas station. Dark hair frames an ashen face, lips thin and pale, and he thinks of Plato.

He thinks of Plato’s world of ideas, where everything exists in a state of perfection, and of how humans are shackled to a world of imperfect shadows.

Sam looks back at Dean, at the galaxy of soft freckles across the bridge of his nose, and Sam wonders if he has broken free of his shackles; if he has wandered out of the cave and if he’s viewing the idea of a perfect human.

Or if, perhaps, Plato didn’t know shit.

Plato never laid eyes on Dean, perfection walks the earth, and Sam is still shackled as ever.

 

*

 

The way they live is fucked up, and Sam has nothing but time. Endless hours he spends, day-dreaming about their impossible incestuous interstate romance.

Wrapped in a scratchy woollen blanket in the backseat, Sam dreams of Dean’s spit in his mouth. Of Dean’s fingers in his hair, twisting his head back, saliva dripping over Sam’s lips, teeth, chin. The back of his throat.

In his day-dream, Sam’s face is perfectly chiselled and porcelain clear like Dean’s. In his day-dream, Sam murmurs: _“Soak me.”_

Sam wants all of Dean. He wants to drown in him.

He hates his own body because it separates him from Dean. He feels like an amputee, and Dean’s entire presence is an overwhelming phantom pain.  

He sometimes wonders if he wasn’t meant to be born as who he is. Maybe, Sam thinks, his atoms were meant for Dean’s heart. 

Dean is in the front seat, next to their dad. Always, always, next to John. Eyes on the road, on the map, and then, _occasionally_ , glancing back at Sam in the rear-view mirror.

A glance is a cannula of green poison. Sam meets the gaze. It’s like shooting up through the eyeball.

Sam feels like the centre of the universe in these moments. On top of the world.

Sam’s a junkie, and he would rob and steal and kill for his fix.

 

*

 

Dean is wearing John’s old jacket. Sam is wearing Dean’s.

 

*

 

Sam is thirteen, and his cock is hard all the time. He’s as untouched as the virgin Mary claimed to be, but he dreams of tongues and cocks and assholes (he doesn’t care about tits or pussies).

He thinks of big brother fingers; spit-soaked and shoved deep inside of him, finger-fucking him like Sam saw an old man do to a chick in a porno once. Sam wonders what the soft curve of Dean’s mouth would feel like against his temple, spurring death-dark filth, quietly, so they wouldn’t get caught.

Sam thinks about covering his brother’s hand with incest jizz while their dad is whiskey nannied on the couch just feet away.   

 

*

 

Dean stays out late every single night.

It’s summer in Arizona, the days move slow and sweetly like molasses, and the girls wear short little dresses that show off thighs and collarbones.

Dean looks at them like Sam looks at him.

Dean likes to break beautiful things. (Sam is whole.)

John tells Dean it’s only a matter of time before he gets some girl knocked up.

Dean’s neck is golden and gleaming with sweat. He’s the worst kind of boy, and he just smirks lazily at John.

“We’ll be gone by the time she realizes,” Dean says, and earns a furious backhand across his cheek.

More colour to Dean’s face, blue of bruises and red of blood. He is still perfect.

Dean’s smirk bleeds into a sneer.

Sam wants Dean to knock him up.  

 

*

 

Dead boys don’t want brother cock.

 

*

 

Sam asks Dean if he thinks he’s ugly.

It’s an early as hell morning in October. John hasn’t been around for weeks and might lie dead in a ditch somewhere, and everything is fucked up, anyway, so Sam asks. His cereal is spongy and the milk has gone a little sour, and he feels like he’s gonna vomit.

Dean’s voice is low and sleepy. It scrapes mercilessly against Sam’s dark and sick little teenage heart. “No. Why, some chick turned you down?”

Sam tells him yes. He lies.

Dean licks peanut butter from his middle finger and _looks_. He reaches across the table and takes Sam’s face in his hand and twists it, surveys it, as though it were a cabbage he might buy. Sam is hyper aware of Dean’s spit-soaked finger against his chin and he has never felt uglier.

Dean looks at him, flashes white teeth, and says: “You’re pretty as fuck, little brother. You’re related to me, after all.”

Dean’s hand disappears.

_You’re related to me._

_You’re pretty as fuck._

Sam’s cock is hard under the table, has been since that spit-wet finger. Since those words.

 _Little brother_.

 

*

 

Sam thinks a lot about being buried alive. Stretched across the cheap and filthy motel carpet, he holds his breath, lungs aching. He thinks of a shovelful of dirt down his throat and of muddy silence six feet below: all the girls down there are dead, no lip-glossed giggles.

Sam wonders if worms can taste jealousy in decaying flesh.

Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. Everything is green.

When Sam passes out, he’s thinking of Dean’s eyes. He soars high.  

 

*

 

John comes back looking like death has licked him from head to toe.

His face is purple in the shade of violence, the swelling shiny and grim looking and he can barely speak;  two teeth knocked out of his mouth and patches of hair torn from the back of his head. He pours his broken bones into the armchair nearest the door and wheezes wetly in pain.

Dean doesn’t leave their dad’s side for days.

Some nights Sam can hear Dean weep.

Sam thinks of Dean in the next room; a black silhouette hovering over a man who probably isn’t even aware he has the most beautiful boy in the world crying over him.

Sam wonders if Dean ever would cry for him like that. 

 

*

 

Sam fantasises about not wanting it.

Sam reaches for his Walkman and listens to Nirvana’s ‘Rape me’ on repeat until his dick is hard.

He thinks about Dean’s strong hands around his wrists, about his face forced into a pillow until he can’t breathe.

He whispers it to himself. Tastes the taboo on the tip of his tongue. _Sibling rape_.

He thinks of pain and tears and blood and of big brother cock splitting him open.  

Not even in his dreams has he the guts to ask for it.

 _You’re pretty as fuck_.

Sam creams their dad’s sheets.

 

*

 

Some people believe Kurt Cobain’s suicide was a disguised murder.

Sam would like his death to be a like that. Another tragic Winchester mystery John would drive himself mad trying to solve.

Sam has written a hundred suicide notes turned love-letters and they’re all signed with invisible ink, ‘ _Dean_ ’.

Perhaps Sam’s suicide would be a disguised murder, too.

 

*

 

It’s Christmas Eve when Dean asks Sam if he’s happy.

It’s snowing outside, North Dakota gleams silently blue, and Dean looks at him with those lethal lovely green eyes and asks Sam if he’s happy.

Sam wants to cry, because he wants to be in the ground. What happiness would be for him is sickness of the soul to everyone else, and Dean would gladly dig Sam’s grave himself if he knew of the tar black longings Sam carries in his scrawny little chest.

He stares at the knife dad left him in Christmas present. It’s a beautifully slim thing, a glinting silver blade with a handle that bears unpolished emeralds. It’s from the estate of a hunter who died on the job a month ago, Sam knows it, John doesn’t have the means to buy a thing like this and even if he did he wouldn’t spend it on a Christmas gift for Sam.

The emeralds stare back at him, and Sam asks quietly, instead of telling a lie: “Do you think dad will make it back before new year’s?”

In the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean tense up where he sits; sprawled like pretty-boy royalty across the moth-eaten chair. It’s the first hunt John is doing solo since he came back from the werewolves’ nest and spent weeks getting cleaned up by Dean’s tears.

Sam knows Dean worries every single second. Sam should worry, too. He doesn’t. His heart is exhausted by raging jealousy over the fact that Dean worries about someone that is not Sam.

Sam’s convinced that the jealousy is making him uglier. Sharper. Paler.

“Of course,” Dean says at last. He’s not a good liar.

 

*

 

It’s spring when Dean asks again. John has left them in the Impala to pick up coffee and cigarettes he doesn’t think they know he smokes when he’s drinking away memories of corpses and blood and monster fangs in kiddie throats.

Dean stares out through the windshield, and says: “You know, you never said. Are you. You know. Are you happy?”

Sam stares at Dean’s neck, then at the concrete landscape outside; at a town almost everyone has left, and the ones who haven’t wish they had. It’s the dark side of the American dream, and Sam has seen every shade of it.

He’s too tired to lie. “No,” he tells him, sotto voce. “What do I have?”

Dean turns to look at him, and Sam isn’t strong enough to turn that poison down. He looks into Dean’s green, green eyes. Dean says, softly: “You have me.”

Sam thinks of his emerald knife he keeps sharp and lethal in his backpack. He thinks of the worms in the ground, and how he just wants silence. He’s so tired. “Do I?” Sam whispers, finally. “Do I _have_ you, Dean?”

Dean stares, wordlessly. Sam knows he’s said too much.

That’s when John tugs the driver’s door open. He smells like leather and Camel cigarettes.

Dean keeps staring.

 

*

 

John leaves when the flowers bloom, and Sam has been aching from Dean’s silence.

Dean cut him off, cold turkey. He hasn’t glanced back at Sam for two months, and the only green Sam has seen is the knife.

It’s May 2nd, and Sam figures it’s time soon. The worms are hungry.

 

*

 

Sam wakes up to darkness and a warm body. Dean’s scent is everywhere. He’s had this dream before, and throws his arms around the impossible.

The whisper against his ear seems heartbreakingly real. “Forgive me,” Dean whispers. “I’m a coward. I hate myself. Sammy,  _I hate myself_.”

Sam murmurs: “Shut up. I don’t really have you.”

He never did. He never will.

Dean does something then. He drags the knife, silver and emeralds, gently down Sam’s neck. Sam knows he’s not dreaming, because there is blood pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Sam feels Dean’s breath on his cheek.

Dean’s freckles bathe in moonlight when he finally speaks. It’s so soft. “You do,” Dean whispers, and he sounds terrified. “You have me. All of me.”

Sam doesn’t see Dean’s eyes, but he knows what they look like beneath those hooded eyelids.

Dean asks, into their shared silence: “Do I have you?”

Sam goes slack in Dean’s arms. He’s been Dean’s since before the sky was born, and he will still be his when mountains crumble to the sea.

Sam curls into Dean’s chest, tilts his head. It’s an offering. “I want you to hold me until I rot.”

Sam feels Dean’s tongue before he feels his lips. Dean licks Sam’s bottom lip, it’s wet and filthy and just like heaven. Sam whines, Dean laughs softly, and that’s when their lips meet. It’s soft at first, sharp later, and Dean’s teeth threaten to draw blood.

Sam wants to bleed all over that mouth, but for now, he trembles in Dean’s arms.

“I’ll hold you until we both rot,” Dean promises. Sam closes his eyes and does something he hasn’t done since the fire.

He breathes.

 


End file.
